And We Shall Walk and Talk in Gardens
by shan14
Summary: It's already mid-afternoon and the barn is dappled with sunlight through slants in the wood and Will is almost breathless as he steps quickly through the half-closed doors. He's run all the way from the small road where his bicycle is hidden behind a mess of brambles and yet he still hasn't managed to beat her here. [1940's AU]
1. Part i

**A/N:** Inspired late at night by a post on tumblr of a young Jeff/Emily, that's all I'm saying. (also possibly, ridiculously, horribly historically inaccurate but what can I say this is a love story, not historical fiction and I'll try to research the rest better!)

* * *

_Somewhere in the North of England, 1945_

"You're late, Mr McAvoy."

It's already mid-afternoon and the barn is dappled with sunlight through slants in the wood and Will is almost breathless as he steps quickly through the half-closed doors. He's run all the way from the small road where his bicycle is hidden behind a mess of brambles and yet he still hasn't managed to beat her here.

"I was beginning to suspect you'd stood me up."

The smell of damp hay and manure and horse feed is strong around him and Will really hates meeting her here. He'd much prefer something light and airy and romantic – perhaps down by the brook or in the paddocks on the other side of the estate - but the barn is the only place that can guarantee privacy at this hour and the last thing Will needs is someone from the household noticing Mackenzie's prolonged absence and wandering in on them alone.

He's breaking every rule of decorum and propriety just standing here whilst Mackenzie sits coquettishly in the loft, and if her voice weren't so darn delightful as she teases him, his conscience might prevail and send him running whilst there's still time.

Mackenzie whistles his name again and something hot twists in his stomach. He turns to find her peering down at him, her eyes bright in the late sunshine and dancing with a seductive joy. "How was town?" she asks, and he knows he'll never be able to leave her.

She has her legs dangling over the wooden landing and whilst her skirt is long enough that it goes halfway down her shins, her feet are bare and Will can see each, delicate toe. Her skin is terribly pale and he wonders if she's ever been allowed to run barefoot out in the open, or if there was always someone following behind her with shoes. If he could, he'd take her to the coast and walk along the beach holding her hand and drag her into the water just to hear her squeal breathlessly.

"Fine," he tells her instead, "I bought some stamps," he adds uselessly, and hopes his voice isn't too rough with longing for her. They've been dancing around each other for weeks and he hates that he can't be near her always.

She's so young, Mackenzie; barely 23 with wide brown eyes and a tempting smile and a brain much too smart for a girl in her situation. She's a politician's daughter – a Baron's daughter, and that makes it even worse – and whilst she's been educated in some of the finest institutions England has to offer, she's also been sheltered from the world since she was a small child and it's only made her itch to explore and break the rules that much stronger.

She should be in university now, at Oxford perhaps, studying history and literature and delighting the young men in their vests and ties, but instead she's confined to a small patch of land in the north of England, evacuated by her father when things began to get a bit _too_ interesting between Germany and France.

That was over five years ago and whilst Mackenzie has kept aware of as much information as she could, there are still aching gaps in what she was allowed to read and discover about the warfront. It's such a shame, because she's smart and quick when Will starts discussing things with her – they'd spent three hours debating the fall of Hamlet the other afternoon whilst Mackenzie twirled strands of hay between her fingers and inched her foot closer and closer to his own without touching him – and he's tried his best, in the few weeks he's known her, to teach her about the world he knows.

He was a reporter in New York before the war and spent much of his time during it in London, sending news reports back home every Monday and Thursday and now that it's over – thankfully, blessedly all over – he's taken a few months to travel north and see the country he's inhabited for so long. He'd once had plans to write a novel, but that had been scaped when Roosevelt declared war, however he's beginning to think that this small village in the north of England might be the perfect place to stop and plot it out again. It's quiet and pleasantly warm in the summer and out the tiny window of the room he rents is a view down through the village.

And, well, if there's a beautiful young woman who enjoys his conversation and company, that's only an added bonus.

Mackenzie certainly doesn't seem bored with him.

"Are you going to join me?" she asks, pouting, and Will is so entirely screwed because she's swinging her feet back and forth on the landing and all he wants to do is grab her ankle and maybe run his finger up her thigh (and if he's being completely honest with himself maybe follow it with a few kisses).

He's still standing where he was when he first entered the barn and he jolts at her words – their time together is so short and precious in the grand scheme of the day and he doesn't want to waste it ogling her ankles, even if they are delightful. He pushes himself forward and climbs the ladder to the loft quickly and Mackenzie shuffles over to give him room, smiling softly as he settles beside her – far enough away to be considered acceptable (even if nothing about this situation is really _acceptable_) but close enough, that if she were to choose, she could reach across and settle her hand on his arm or even his thigh, though that might be wishful thinking.

"What did you get up to this morning?" he asks, because he always likes hearing about her day, even if it often follows the same routine of breakfast, a walk, and writing letters to her father.

"I spent the morning cataloguing the contents of the library because I was bored out of my brains, Will. And yourself?" and he'd laugh if she didn't sound so despondent.

"I think I might actually kill somebody, one day, just to make life interesting. Do you know how tedious it is living here? I've counted the tiles in the bathroom three days in a row now – there are 784 of them, Will. _784_."

"You could always leave," he suggests, and Mackenzie glances at him quickly, like he's lost his mind. Sometimes he forgets just how young she is, especially when they're debating Soviet Russia and the rise of Lenin and whether or not Stalin can really be considered an ally even if they'd all been fighting the same fight not three months earlier.

"I can't leave. Don't you think if I could I would have already?" and she sounds so defeated he's half tempted to take her hand and lead her down the road and never return.

Some nights he lays in the tiny room he rents above the butchers on the high street and thinks he'd quite like to return to New York with Mackenzie by his side – she'd love the city and he'd marry her in an instant if it were at all acceptable to do so. He thinks they'd be very happy together; he could write and she could study all the history and literature her heart desired.

"I brought you something," he tells her instead, because whilst he can't take her from this life he can at least provide distractions from it. Mackenzie pauses in her frustrated rant about the housemaid, Ellen, and her continual crusade to ensure that none of the few young lads returning from the frontline set their eyes on Ms. Mackenzie unless they're _suitable_, and her eyes go wide at the book Will pulls from his threadbare pants pocket and presents to her.

(And he doesn't even want to think about what Ellen considers suitable because he's entirely sure that a 30 year old American journalist who smokes, drinks and enjoys a laugh and with barely enough money to cover his rent each month and only three pairs of pants and a typewriter to his name isn't it.)

"One copy of Woolf's _A Room Of One's Own_, presented to Ms. McHale without charge."

"Oh Billy thank you!" she gushes, and the nickname catches him completely off guard. She's never called him that, and as she takes the book from him she cradles it to her chest a moment before cracking open the front page. She hums, and Will is caught watching the small smile grow on her face and the blush high in her cheeks and the slope of her nose that curves into her lips and thinks, I wonder what colour they'd be if I kissed her.

It would be so easy, and so entirely scandalous, to just reach over and press her back into the hay and discover the noises she'd make with his weight settled against her.

He's 90% sure she'd let him, as well, and that's probably the most terrifying aspect. She has no real boundaries when it comes to him, and Will knows he's in danger of falling for her. The only thing holding him back is that he's merely a summer fling born of boredom and far too few dashing young men.

Over the next couple of months they'll return to the countryside, and soon enough Mackenzie will return to London, and Will will be forgotten in a haze of dashing young Peers and gentlemen and one day Mackenzie will laugh and blush, remembering how silly she'd been, batting her eyes at that gruff old American.

It makes his heart ache to think like that but he's nothing if not realistic, and quite frankly if he can make her life a little more interesting until she returns home than he's happy too – he'd hang the moon if she asked him.

"I think you'll enjoy it," he tells her honestly, because she's passionate and obstinate and far too intelligent not to be involved in the world. He'd asked her one day what she would do if she could be anything and she'd turned to him plainly and said, "I'd go anywhere. And everywhere. And then I'd come back home and write about every place I'd been a million different times and make people read the stories and talk to me about them until they were so sick of listening to me that I had to find someone new to talk to."

And Will had laughed because he can imagine her doing just that, all the while thinking, _I'd travel to the ends of the earth with you and never tire of your voice._

"I'll get this back to you as soon as possible," she tells him, but Will shakes his head.

"No. This is yours," and taking a risk, reaches out and folds his hand across her own on the book cover. Her fingers are warm and thin and soft, and if he were a brave man he would hold them tighter. Mackenzie inhales sharply and when he pulls his hand back her cheeks are stained red and her eyes are wide.

"I should be going," he tells her with a thick voice and he hopes he doesn't imagine her bite her lip to stop her protest. They both know he should – not only is it getting late, but they've pushed their boundaries a little further this afternoon.

Will pats the back of her hand with a soft graze of his fingers and then pushes himself up to walk to the edge of the loft. His joints are stiff from sitting in one position and his knee pops awkwardly – remnants of a high school baseball injury.

Mackenzie is silent as he descends the ladder, but as he turns to smile and wave at her before leaving he finds her face drawn and serious, like she's trying not to cry.

He almost stops and runs back up the ladder, but that would be a ridiculous course of action so instead he pauses, and lets her fight back control of her smile.

"Be safe," she calls to him, and he thinks it's such a strange parting comment, and rather poignant considering the last few years.

He steps from the barn and the air is cooler now that the sun is beginning to set. Mackenzie will already be nose deep in the book and he wonders if she'll have it done by this time tomorrow. Easily, he thinks, and laughs. She'll be terribly passionate about it as well.

There's a scuffle behind him and he startles as she appears at the barn door, peering around it cautiously and calling, "Billy?" like a lost child.

He stares back at her and her eyes seem impossibly wide and terrifyingly innocent.

"Same time tomorrow?" she finally asks, and Will smiles and nods fondly.

She has the book clutched to her chest and her feet are still bare and her hair is a mess that was once held back by clips and pins but is now flying in tendrils and she looks like a thousand and one warm, summer nights that he'd love to live by her side.

He sighs as he turns back to the tiny path leading to the road where his bicycle is hidden and thinks, _my heart is in no way prepared for you._

_Please be kind. _


	2. Part ii

_**A/N:** _and so we continue. Enjoy. And to the amazing people who have responded to this bless you and thank you all! I hope this continues to excite you :D

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_Dear William, _

_I imagine it will be quite late by the time this reaches you. You were helping Peter rebuild the barn this afternoon and I know you must be tired, but I missed our usual talk and wanted you to know that I finished A Room of Ones Own this morning and adored it like you thought I would. I know you disagree but I truly believe there is no one – man nor woman – comparable to Virginia Woolf and her writing. I particularly enjoyed the use of the character Judith Shakespeare. I thought that was absolutely fascinating, but horrible at the same time. Can you imagine, Billy? There are so many young girls who have the talent and the intellect to be just as accomplished as men and yet they're hidden away and locked in houses and refused continual education just because they aren't men! _

_Sometimes I think I ought to run away completely just to show my father..._

_But I digress. The true meaning of my writing was actually to enquire as to your plans tomorrow. I don't fancy another afternoon without your company - in fact today was rather boring in comparison to the usual boredom of being here. Will you meet me tomorrow evening? I've managed to convince Ellen that the weather is fine enough for me to talk a short walk along the south border of the estate, down by the creek, so we should have at least an hour to enjoy together. _

_The young boy who delivered this message has been instructed to wait for your reply – a simple yes or no will do – though I will be heartbroken if it is the latter. _

_Waiting patiently, _

_Mackenzie_

_p.s. I'm terribly sorry but would you be able to pay him? I promised, but I didn't have my purse on me when he came to the house and he really is a lovely young boy. His name is Patrick. Thank you!_

ooo

_Dear Mackenzie, _

_Yes, I would love to meet you tomorrow._

_Will_

_p.s. Please bring money. _

ooo

Will and Mackenzie first met on the street corner outside the post office. Will was nose deep in the local paper and Mackenzie was watching a dog across the street as it nosed around the butchers, begging for scraps, and neither of them were paying attention to what was in front of them until Mackenzie's head had collided with Will's chest and he'd wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her.

It was decidedly too much touching for either of them to handle – Mackenzie had gasped but more so because Will's eyes were large and a startling blue, and Will had frozen solid because there was a young, beautiful woman in his arms and her fingertips were resting on his chest.

"Beg pardon –"

"I'm so sorry –"

"Oh!"

Mackenzie had gasped and taken a step backwards and Will had felt his blood run cold at the startled look on her face. Surely he hadn't done anything _that_ offensive in the 5 seconds they'd known each other. And it had been so long since another woman had looked his way, let alone been near to him; it was horrible to think that he'd lost the charm that had won over so many in London and New York.

But Mackenzie had merely peered closer at him and murmured, "You're American," like it was entirely fascinating.

"Yes, yes I am," he'd agreed, and when Mackenzie hadn't said anything further, rather had continued studying him like he was something exotic showing in a museum, he'd shuffled awkwardly and tried to will the blush from spreading to his cheeks.

After all, she was devastatingly beautiful; and decidedly young.

"I'm Mackenzie," she'd announced when her inspection of his face was over, and her voice was filled with a strange mix of confidence and defiance, like she was daring him to contradict her.

"Will. Will McAvoy."

"And what brings you here Mr. McAvoy? It's not every day we have American men wandering our streets, " and then her voice had become softer, "Are you a soldier?"

"No, actually," and that had perhaps intrigued her even more. "I'm a journalist, actually. I was in London for most of the war."

"That's fascinating," she'd implored, but then added as if it was an after thought, "though a pity," and he'd raised his eyebrow, confused. What on earth was disappointing about that?

Mackenzie had blushed, but also chuckled and then murmured, "You would have been dashing in a uniform," and Will had felt the blood run hot through his veins.

_Well then, if she was going to be like that. _

"What on earth are you doing up here?" she'd enquired moments later, and with a deprecating chuckle Will had launched into telling her about his movements over the past few years. Mackenzie had added her own insights, and over half an hour later Will had realized they were still stood outside the post office, he with the newspaper clutched to his chest.

"Are you very useful in a garden, Mr. McAvoy?" she'd enquired curiously, and Will had been caught by her smile that seemed to dance in her eyes. He'd nodded without even thinking about it, and she'd beamed delightedly.

"Splendid. I'll be in touch," and then she'd walked passed him and down the street, glancing over her shoulder one last time to grin at him.

He'd watched her go and clutched the newspaper tighter to his chest and when he'd finally processed her words minutes later and realized he'd never dealt with a garden in his life, let alone the type a woman like her probably cultivated, he'd already been half way in love and loath to disappoint her.

He was doomed from that moment on.

ooo

He finds her the next day by the stream that runs along the south end of the estate. It's secluded enough that he's sure they won't be interrupted – and the stream is close enough to a path he's often walked that if any one did, they could simply say they'd run into each other and stopped for a talk.

It's already late in the afternoon but the sun won't set for hours still, and Will can feel the dampness on his skin where his shirt clings too tight in the heat – he's always hated summer, and even if an English one is quite mild he's looking forward to a quick descent into fall and being able to wear a shirt or cardigan without melting.

It's nice by the stream, however, because the water babbles merrily and there's a patch of soft grass that Mackenzie's found to sit on so Will takes a few moments to simply stand and watch her silhouetted against the sun. She's tiny in comparison to him, but her personality makes her seem much bolder and brighter. The few times he's managed to upset her – including the long argument they'd had two weeks earlier about musical theatre because no matter how smooth he attempts to be, he always falls into the trap of being overly passionate about Irving Berlin – he'd almost forgotten that she wasn't one of the other men in the pub, or the bureau office in London that he used to joke around with.

She can hold her own against him much better than most people ever have and he loves that he can push at her and challenge her in a way he's never been comfortable to with other women.

Today, however, her shoulders are downcast and Will frowns quickly because he could swear they were shaking, like she were crying.

"Mackenzie?" he calls so that she knows he's arrived, and she jumps and swerves to face him.

"Hello Will," she smiles hesitantly, but then she pats the ground beside her, "Come sit?"

He settles by her side and there's a brief moment of awkwardness. Mackenzie glances at him but then looks away just as quick and Will doesn't quite know where to place his hands. He finally settles on leaning back against them, but the air is still tinged with her soft sniffles and Will can't help but enquire – he hates the thought that she's upset.

"Mackenzie?"

"I'm fine."

"Clearly you're not," he pushes.

"I received a letter from my father today," she murmurs, her voice hidden by her lowered head. She's refusing to look at him, and Will wishes he had the courage to lean over and tip her head up until she smiles.

"Oh?" he says instead, hoping she'll understand.

"Nothing. It's nothing," she shakes her head. She glances at him quickly and Will hates that he can see tears in her lashes. She has her hair out today and it falls in wisps of brown that frame her face and make her dark eyes all the more serious in the late summer light. "I just hate to disappoint him," she adds, and her words are punched out around a sob.

"I don't think any body could be disappointed in you."

She shakes her head quickly but when her gaze finds his own her eyes are a little brighter, and her smile is true. Will gets lost a second, caught watching the sun through the trees overhanging shift and splay across her cheeks, and not for the first time wonders what it would be like to trail his fingers down their apple, and across the bridge of her nose and the line of her jaw to her mouth.

"You're sweet," she mumbles, and he immediately feels guilty because his thoughts certainly aren't.

"Not really," he huffs, and wishes she would stop looking at him like she doesn't believe him.

_23, William, _he reminds himself. She's 23 and a _Baron's_ daughter. He'd have better luck marrying a film starlet.

"How about you? Do you have family back home in New York?" she asks, and already her voice is steadier. They haven't spoken about their families before beyond casual mentions of her father, and Will doesn't know what he thinks about this sudden foray into the personal. He likes it, however. It's nice knowing she's as interested in him as she is his mind and his arguments – nice knowing he's not just a walking, talking encyclopaedia on world affairs.

"Nebraska, actually," he finds himself telling her. "I'm from Nebraska. I moved to New York when I was 18 to pursue journalism."

"Oh," she exclaims, startled, and then regretfully she adds, "I don't know Nebraska, sorry."

"Don't worry," he assures her with a laugh. "There's nothing much to know. But I have two sisters, and a brother, Michael. He landed at Normandy on D-Day, and I lost contact with him for many months. For a while we thought – well we thought that was it."

He picks at the grass under his hands and finds a long blade to tear in half – it rips cleanly and he rubs his finger over it, thinking of the letters his sisters had sent him each month begging for news, and the aching in his chest every time the doorbell rang, or there was a new telegram.

"But then there was a letter just before I came here that he'd survived," he tells her, and he can feel Mackenzie's steady gaze on the side of his face. He's sure that if he looked her way she'd be smiling at him - that soft, reserved one she saves for when she thinks he's not looking. He's only caught it once or twice when he's been rambling about something he's passionate about and already it's his favourite. He glances at her quickly, hoping to catch it, and she blushes furiously as he adds, "he's back home with an injured leg but they expect he'll make a full recovery."

"Oh Billy," she sighs – and there's that name again. He's had dreams about that name being whispered in his ear that have left him sweaty and tingling and that are decidedly inappropriate – "I'm so pleased to hear that."

"Thank you – yes," and he laughs, thinking of his young brother. "He was always a stubborn bastard," and then he pauses, "am I allowed to say bastard in front of you, Miss McHale."

She blushes again, and he isn't sure if that's because the sun is still warm even as it descends, or if she's actually embarrassed, but then she huffs and reaches out to push a hand at his shoulder, "Oh shut up. I'm not twelve."

"But you're a lady," he teases, and she giggles delightedly. She rocks forward with a hand at her cheek and Will gets caught watching how her eyes crinkle adorably when she's merry.

"Hardly," she bites back when she's settled, "I'm no more a lady than you are a gentleman," and considering the fact that she actually, honestly _is a lady_, he doesn't know if that's a compliment on his behavior or an insult.

"And your parents?" she enquires, before he can ask.

It sobers him immediately, and her brow creases at the shift in his mood.

"My mother died when I was 14. Tuberculosis. And my father drank himself to death when I was 20, but no one was very sad about that."

She's silent, almost as if she can't find the words to add to his flippant remark, and Will's grateful for the moment of peace. He doesn't like thinking about his parents and he'd much rather watch her profile as she gazes out across the water.

"And you? You're mother?" he questions.

There's a pause, and then Mackenzie draws a deep breath and all but whispers, "She passed away when I was 5."

He feels a terrible ache in his chest at her words – if he could he would take back the question so she needn't answer – and he wishes he could reach out and touch her, perhaps rub her shoulder or settle an arm around her waist. She looks like a little child now, with her head bowed and her nose red from unshed tears and it's entirely unfair that she be so alone in the world. No wonder she's so bored up here and so lonely – the only family she has left is in London and there's hardly anyone her age in this tiny town.

"Oh Mackenzie," he sighs, and rocks his body to the side so that at least she might feel his presence.

She startles him, then. One second they're sitting side by side and the next she's grabbed his hand tight in her own, her grip so secure he can feels his fingers ache. He doesn't complain, however, because her skin is soft and warm in his own and he can't even remember the last time someone held his hand. It's a wonderful feeling, and the ache in his chest subsides.

"Can you do something for me?" she asks, and her voice is just on the edge of desperate that leads them into dangerous territory. He really wishes she wouldn't, because he's beginning to suspect that he'd do anything just to see her happy again.

"Will it likely get me in trouble?" he asks, and she smiles a little more, shaking her head.

"No – well, actually perhaps," and he glances up sharply because he wasn't expecting that it might actually be. "But no one will know except me and I won't tell a soul."

"Mackenzie?"

And then her voice is soft and tentative, barely a whisper, as she murmurs, "hold me? Please?"

He doesn't move at first. There are far too many repercussions and though he's aware that it's 1945, not 1745, and that he's allowed to touch her without fear of having his head taken off, that doesn't mean his own heart is able to handle what that closeness might do to it.

Holding her would be – well it would be a dream, literally, because she's been in his arms each night as he falls asleep and each morning he wakes to her phantom weight and fingers.

If he were a smart man he would say no, for his own hearts sake, but any man with a shred of decency would also see that she's young and aching and small and to say no to her would break both their hearts.

Tentatively he reaches a hand around her back and then he settles it on her arm, just below her shoulder. In that moment it's as if all the fight and tension drains from her, and Will finds himself with an armful of Mackenzie curled into his chest, her own hands climbing across his torso and sinking into his skin through his layers of shirts.

It's electrifying to be held around her – he can feel it spread like warm honey, thick and gooey, though his veins – and when he breathes deep it's to the smell of her hair and skin, fresh like daisies.

"Thank you," she mumbles into his shirt, and Will clutches her tighter. He wonders how long it's been since she's been held like this. Years, perhaps?

He certainly hasn't been since his mother was alive, and _god_ he hopes the last time Mackenzie was held wasn't by her own mother.

"Do we have time?" she asks, and she sounds drowsy with sleep, like she might melt into him.

They don't really. Mackenzie should be heading home soon lest Ellen come looking for her and Will has papers to read and a letter to write to his sister that he'd like posted in the morning.

But Mackenzie is warm and sleepy in his arms and not for the first time, he thinks he might be the closest she has to a kindred spirit in this entire village.

He'd hold her forever, if he were allowed.

And so he answers.

"Yes, darling, we have time."


	3. Part iii

**A/N:** for cerie on tumblr who was evil today and wanted more of this. here you are. and hey look is that an actual plot I see developing…?

* * *

Mackenzie wakes early most mornings.

In the summer the sun rises by five thirty and Ellen bustles down the long hallways with a single-minded determinedness to wake the house from its slumber.

For the first few months Mackenzie had stoically resisted Ellen's harried knocks at her door, but when the housekeeper hadn't given up, and then had started hiding the nice jam and the good tea and the fresh bread in the kitchen for breakfast she'd decided that conceding Ellen's request was probably the safest option if she wanted to remain fed. Since then she's taken to waking herself even earlier, and has discovered that the dawn hour between five and six is the perfect time for reading.

There's a little window that looks out onto the gardens and fields of the small estate and the sun rises over the birch trees and shines warmly through the glass – she uses the time to read the pile of books Will's been procuring for her over the past month and whilst there are some that she devours quickly, almost hungrily (like the words and the pages are never enough and she wants to dive inside them and find more) there are others that she's taking her time with.

At the moment she has both Tolkien's _The Hobbit_, and Du Maurier's _Rebecca_ on her bedside and she spends her days lost somewhere rather delightful between Middle Earth and Manderley. There's something devilishly intriguing about Maxim de Winter's and that gorgeous hidden away house that she can't quite place – perhaps it's the longing for something mysterious and desperately romantic – and it has her up late at night imagining secret hideaways and intelligent brown eyes and wandering hands.

There's only the two of them in the house currently – she and Ellen – and whilst she loves the older woman in a strange way they both drive each other to distraction.

Mackenzie has always been at least five years ahead of her age – wanting to read from her fathers library when she was seven and follow him into meetings when she was nine and _god forbid_, talk to boys and men when she was a teenager. Now she's twenty-three and slowly convincing Ellen that she doesn't need a leash to step out in public; she's perfectly capable of looking after herself and if the men want to talk to her, so be it.

More often then not she wants to talk to them.

It's late morning now and she can hear Ellen downstairs swearing loudly. She never does that when she knows Mackenzie is nearby but when she's by herself she has the tongue of a sailor.

"Anything wrong?" Mackenzie asks, appearing behind her innocently, and Ellen jumps and knocks her head against the ledge of the sink she's bent over.

"The pipes are blocked," she explains glumly, and Mackenzie frowns in concern.

Neither of them is very well equipped to deal with plumbing.

However, she ponders. "I could ask Mr. McAvoy," she suggests, "He mentioned he was good in the garden and I'm sure he'd be able to help."

Will had said no such thing – when she'd originally met him all those weeks ago on the street corner and their brief encounter had turned into a half hour conversation, she'd mentioned gardening and he'd said yes, but with an uncertain nod that leaves her with no doubt that he'd be rather useless.

She can't imagine he'll be any better with the sink. But it's an excuse to spend an afternoon with him in a place that isn't the barn or outside and an opportunity for Ellen to meet him – perhaps it will help lessen the dark crease between her brow at the mention of his name.

"The American?" she asks disdainfully, and Mackenzie resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"Yes, Ellen. The American," she responds drily, "He was a journalist in London throughout he war – you know he worked with Murrow on _London After Dark_ during the Blitz? " she adds conversationally, and the crease between Ellen's brows lessens slightly.

The two of them of them had listened, enraptured, to the broadcast and whilst Will wasn't one of the nine commentators reporting, she knows from the few things he's told her that he was instrumental in its production.

"He's one to watch," Will had murmured late one afternoon as they'd sat swinging their legs from the barn loft, "In years to come we're going to be speaking about Murrow and not just about what he did in the war."

"Would you work with him again? Back in America?" Mackenzie had asked Will, and whilst she hates the thought of him leaving her little patch of English land, she can't deny he hadn't sounded slightly awed and excited when he shrugged and uttered, "Yeah. Yes – definitely. In a heartbeat. Any of those guys – or the Writing 69th. Did you hear about them? Utterly crazy what they did – but admirable."

Now and Ellen's pursed her lips and is considering Mackenzie carefully, "He'll do it properly?" she asks, and Mackenzie nods quickly. She figures between the two of them they've enough brains to figure out the kitchen sink.

"He's very smart Ellen, and very gentlemanly," she announces rather proudly, but Ellen merely huffs and glares at her harder.

"Fine," she mutters eventually and Mackenzie has to remind herself to remain calm lest Ellen discover her true motives.

A whole afternoon of watching Will leant over the sink – she can hardly think of anything better.

ooo

"Honestly Mackenzie I have no clue what I'm doing," he gripes.

It's mid-afternoon and Will has his sleeves rolled up and a tattered pair of pants on. She'd been almost disappointed at first – usually he was so well put together – but it had only taken her a moment to appreciate the true beauty of Will McAvoy with bare forearms and more casual dress and now she can hardly take her eyes off him.

"I've never done this before."

"Well neither have I but someone has to fix it," she tells him tartly.

She has _Rebecca_ on the table before her but she's read the same page four times and can't remember anything – something about Mrs. Danvers fussing – and that reminds her that Will has to hurry before Ellen returns home from the markets.

"I'm almost finished _The Hobbit_," she tells him instead, "I enjoyed it very much but I think next I'd like something a bit more serious."

Will snorts indelicately and it surprises her a second. Without looking up he comments drolly, "You have very strange tastes in literature, Ms. McHale," and even though he can't see it, she hopes he can feel her glare.

"Have you read any Orwell?" he asks finally, and despite her initial vexation, Mackenzie can't help but smile. For all his teasing he's never once not answered her seriously when she's asked something of him, and she loves that he's always considered her his equal in conversation. So often she's found herself slightly thrown to the side by men, but Will seems to take a delight in her endless rambles and questions, to the point where he provokes her into debates until they're both breathless with passion.

"I read _Down and Out in Paris and London_ a few summers ago, and I quite enjoyed it. Why?"

Will takes a moment, holding a spanner in one hand and eyeing it with disdain, before tapping it against the side of a pipe redundantly and musing, "I think you'd rather like _The Road to Wigan Pier_. You've certainly defended a socialist way of life more times than I'm comfortable with," he gently teases, and she makes a face at him even though he's now looking at her directly.

He counters it with a knowing smile and she can feel her cheeks burn.

"I'd like that very much," she tells him.

"I'll see if I can round up a copy for next week. How's _Rebecca_?"

"Charming. I want to live in Manderley," she announces primly and Will chuckles, turning back to the ailing sink.

"Of course you do. I can imagine you there – you'd fit right in with the mystery and insanity."

"I'm going to ignore that gibe; and have you actually fixed anything, or are you just hitting it?"

Will taps the spanner against the rusted pipe two more times and then turns back to her, shrugging pitifully. "I have no clue what to do with it, Mackenzie. No clue. Tell Ellen I'm dreadfully sorry, though I imagine she'll be pleased to have further reason to dislike me."

"She just doesn't know you," Mackenzie mutters, annoyed at the housekeeper for no real reason. "And the fact that you're a yank doesn't help."

"A yank?" he laughs, "The other day you said I was a gentleman and now I'm merely a yank?"

"You were mean to me, Mr. McAvoy. Gentlemen don't tease ladies, it's not nice."

"Oh I'm very nice," he murmurs, and his voice is suddenly low and hot and smooth, "And you're hardly a lady, or had you forgot?"

He's leaning close to her – dangerously close for the middle of the kitchen when Ellen could walk in any moment and interrupt them. But Mackenzie can't find it within her to care. Will's arms are strong beneath his rolled up shirt and she wants desperately to run her hands up them and feel the curve of his shoulder to his neck; wants to step so close that she can smell him – leather and smoke and ink and something undefinable, something wonderfully _him_; wants to lean up until she can feel his breathe on her lips.

He's wonderfully ridiculous and it's such a romantic notion, falling for the gruff but sweet stranger from afar – but she can't help but think that there's so much more between them than simple tension. She isn't just attracted to him – she loves his conversation and his smile and his voice and his heart; she's dangerously close to falling for him entirely, and the concept is dizzying.

She _wants_ to fall for him but at the same time knows that she can't – that it would never work, for too many reasons.

(Though because she's always been immune to consequence, the thought almost makes the prospect all the more fun)

"Mackenzie?" he murmurs, and she breaks from her daydream, shuddering slightly. He's the first to lean back and when he does she can see two high red spots on his cheeks, like he's flushed with embarrassment or excitement.

"I should be going now," he tells her, and her heart drops quickly. Their time together is always so short – and largely drawn to an end by Will whenever he's been settled next to her too long or something's been too intense for them to handle.

He steps back quickly and wipes the back of his hands on his old pants, even though he never did more than pick up the spanner and mess around with it.

"Tomorrow?" she asks quickly, as he retreats towards the kitchen door, and his smile is quick and pure as he turns back to her with a nod.

"Of course. I want to hear all about the De Winters, and Mrs. Danvers tomorrow afternoon – be prepared to tell me everything," he smiles fondly, and Mackenzie feels something low and wonderful swoop through her stomach. She's so unused to having someone's complete, undivided attention and it's almost intoxicating, knowing that he wants and waits for her arguments and her words.

"Tomorrow," she murmurs back, and nods decidedly – she wishes it were sooner but at least she can distract herself with her books. It's almost terrifying how dependent she's become on seeing him, like her day isn't complete without his presence, but her world feels better for having him in it, so she can't ever complain.

Will's figure disappears through the kitchen door and she thinks of the letter she received from her father days earlier and the thought of everything returning to how it was at the beginning of 1939.

She doesn't want to go backwards, however.

She wants to move onwards to something new.

ooo

Two days later and they're quiet this afternoon - Mackenzie in a pale blue dress that falls just above her knees and Will with his sleeves rolled messily to his elbows.

The sun keeps glinting off the water and Mackenzie wants to dip her feet in and feel the cold between her toes, but Will's leant back on his arms with his eyes closed peacefully and the moment feels deceptively intimate, like they've been this close for years, not mere months. He's more relaxed with her each day, to the point where he'd laid a gentle hand over her own and squeezed it tightly when he'd arrived; but now he's quiet and she can't help but feel that despite the perfect content feeling in the moment, something sobering is coming.

He's so beautiful when he's calm, however, and she knows he'd shake his head or blush or shy away from the description. It's decidedly not manly in a way she knows he likes to pretend to be, but there's softness behind his gruff exterior that she feels when ever he glances at her or listens to her words. She can't think of any other way to express it – he's beautiful when the sun dapples his cheeks on late afternoons in the barn and when he's so caught up discussing the failings of the League of Nations that his hands start flying before him until he has to pause for breath; he's beautiful when she says something young and idealistic and he smiles at her like she's something precious, and when he stops and leans his head back and lets the wind ruffle playfully at his blonde hair down by the stream.

She's never known anyone like him – he's this strange mix of old-world charm and American roughness and journalistic integrity that's slightly battered by the realities of war - and she desperately doesn't want to lose him.

But she knows that soon her father will be returning from London and with him comes reality - the life she would have been living had the world not erupted in a state of war; her continued studies and the eventual return home - and Bryan, always at the back of her mind.

Will's so perfectly content to exist alongside her that she's almost afraid to let him leave her each afternoon. Every time his handsome face slips into a smile as he waves goodbye she's reminded again that their time together is dwindling.

She's spent 5 years rattling around this old house, desperately lonely, and now that she's finally found someone who's interesting and passionate, and who's interested in _her, _it's going to be snatched away as everything returns to normal.

He's always shy in the moments before they depart, and she wishes sometimes she had the courage to take his hand and ask him to stay.

"How's your book going?" she asks gently, and he hums but doesn't say anything immediately.

"It's going," he chuckles finally and smiles at her.

His hand brushes over hers once more and then he squeezes it quickly, the warm weight of his palm soothing her nervous heart.

"Lets just enjoy now," he breathes softly, and dropping his elbows to the ground he settles back on the grass.

He's sprawled rather boneless under her gaze and Mackenzie smiles peacefully at him, "Lets," she murmurs, and leaning back onto the grass, she rests her head against his shoulder, and thinks – _please don't go._


	4. Part iv

**A/N:** There was a ridiculous amount of writing that took place tonight but this is perhaps my favourite. And because I'm evil and tired I'm going to have to post more Sam tomorrow, not tonight. Sorry! (but I hope you enjoy this!)

* * *

He kisses her on a Sunday.

He's sure there's something ironic in that, that on the holy day he decides enough is enough and catches the side of her face in his palm gently and draws her towards him. But Mackenzie is startled and then soft and insistent in his arms and she smells like flowers and feels wonderful against his body and he can't help but think that nothing between them could ever be less than sacred.

It begins with the two of them in the loft, Will sitting with his legs hanging over the edge whilst Mackenzie rests beside him. She has her head pillowed against his thigh and a hand lying back against his stomach and the touch is so idle and intimate that Will can hardly breathe.

She's reading poetry to him but he can't make heads nor tails of the words, only the lyrical, beautiful cadence of her voice as it lilts through the clean summer air around them and mingles with the soft sounds of barn swallows chirping in the eaves.

"_The shadow of the dome of pleasure, floated midway on the waves_; doesn't that sound wonderful," she interrupts herself, and knocks her fingers back against his chest to catch his attention.

Will hums in agreement and smiles at her upside down face. They're being stupid today – acting too intimate and comfortable with each others presence and Will takes the time to run a gentle finger from the dip between her eyebrows down her nose.

She giggles restlessly and her nose scrunches up and Will draws his hand down until it's resting upon her stomach. She's wearing a soft, almost silky cream dress that sways around her knees and it's ridden up slightly where her legs are curled up – he can see the pale curve of her thighs and lets his hand rest heavy on her stomach lest his fingers decide to wander lower.

As it is, that touch alone has her breath stuttering and Will can't help the wonderfully irrational feeling swell in his chest at the thought that he's caused that reaction – he should be used to it by now; it's not really a secret how horrendously attracted they are to each other.

Instead the last few days have been a carefully crafted game of cat and mouse.

"One day I'd like to go to India," she murmurs with her eyes drawn shut, "Or somewhere in the heart of Africa, or the Caribbean - anywhere that isn't here," she decides, as if here is the most terrible place on earth.

"Is my company that abhorrent?" he mutters, and her eyes fly open comically. He tries to hide his smile as she bolts up and sits but he can't help it when her eyes are wide and startled.

"No," she demands, and then she turns the tables back on him completely by adding, "You'd be with me, of course," and her smile is much to knowing for that to be innocent.

He clears his throat and tries not to think about the warm weight of her head that still rests, like a phantom, on his thigh. He almost wants her to settle back down there, but her hair is wild where it's been mused by the position and her lips are a gorgeous red in the bright summer sun and Will's glad that he's able to drink in her features directly.

"They'd ask questions; a man and a woman travelling alone together," he teases, but then his stomach clenches when she smiles knowingly – like that was her plan all along.

God, he thinks, knowing her it has been.

"Not if you married me," she tells him straight, and then she smiles like an imp and turns back to let her head rest on his thigh.

She starts reading from her book once more; "_All thoughts, all passions, all delights; whatever stirs this mortal frame_," and Will lets his fingers drift across her forehead and twirls them in her strands of wayward hair.

ooo

Half an hour later as she stands at the barn door, instead of turning and hurrying back down the path towards his bicycle as he always does, he curves his palm around her soft cheek and tugs her forward with his other hand on her waist and kisses her through her soft, mumbled, "oh," until she's pliant in his arms with her hands tangled up in his hair.

"Tomorrow?" he asks, breaking away, and her cheeks are blushed a furious red.

She doesn't respond, and as she blinks rapidly and licks at her lips Will idly wonders if he's the first person to kiss her – if so he hopes she remembers it constantly. He wants her to be feeling that kiss to her toes long after he's gone.

"Yes, tomorrow," she finally mutters, and this time as he walks away its with a definite skip, and a definite smile.

ooo

She's distracted out of her mind the next day.

Sleep was next to impossible when all she'd been able to think of was Will's hand as it curved around her waist and the solid weight of his chest pressed up against her breast and the soft, slick nip of his lips against her own.

It wasn't her first kiss, but it was the first born of passion – the first that wasn't desperate fumbling or nervous and reserved. It was filled with want in a way that up until then been only in her daydreams, and now that she's felt it she can't help but want more of him.

He's in her body and her blood and she can't close her eyes without seeing his wide blue eyes focused intently on her.

"That's the third time you've picked up that glass without drinking," Ellen tells her sternly, and Mackenzie blushes, finally bringing the glass to her lips.

"What's going on in that mind of yours?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about the book I was reading last night," she mutters, and Ellen's eyebrows rise disbelievingly.

It doesn't hold much strength because every look Ellen gives her nowadays is disbelieving and if Mackenzie wasn't certain that they were very discreet she would swear Ellen had been spying on her.

"It wouldn't have to do with Mr. McAvoy?" the housemaid asks, and Mackenzie blushes furiously.

"No," she gripes, and then stands quickly to disappear out the kitchen door.

It's not her finest exit, and neither does it give her story much credence, but the morning is bright and beautiful outside and she has designs on accidentally running into Will down by the post office.

It's been much too long since she saw him last and she wants to know if blushing post-kiss is something mutual.

ooo

It _is_ mutual, as Will discovers when Mackenzie barrels into him on the street corner.

It's eerily reminiscent of their first meeting all those weeks ago, and Will wonders if she planned it that way. The slight smile stealing at her lips would suggest so.

"Good morning," she chirps, and as the blush spreads down his neck Will becomes acutely aware of everyone else on the street around them.

Mackenzie is stood quite close and he can already feel the disapproving glare of the older women who take up residence outside the local store each morning on the back of his head.

"Good morning."

"How are you?" she questions, swaying close. She's wearing a long skirt with a fitted blouse that meets at her waist and the light, creamy blue makes her eyes sparkle. Her hair is out and wispy at her shoulders and Will can remember what it felt like against the back of his palm as he'd cradled her cheek yesterday; how her skin had been soft and pale against his broad fingers and how her lips had been cherry red and sweet to kiss.

"I have to post a few letters," he tells her, clearing his throat and brandishing the envelopes in his hand before her. "For my sisters," he answers her unspoken question, and her gaze softens a little.

"What time are you free this afternoon?" she asks, and Will almost wants to nudge her out of the way and someplace more private, lest someone overhear them.

(Not that there is anywhere private or innocuous on a main street in a small English village)

"Mackenzie," he mutters, but can't help but smile knowingly at her. She's watching him like he's something she wants to devour and it's making it almost impossible for him to resist. "Two o'clock?" he finally asks, and her cheeks flush in delight.

"Yes. Please. By the stream?" she adds, and he almost groans at the image. He'd very much like to practice kissing her on the soft grass with the water babbling happily behind them and only the sun on their backs; _yes please_.

"Okay."

She watches him carefully a moment, and then heedless of the crowd around them, smiles adoringly, "Okay."

ooo

I'm so far in over my own head it's not funny, Will panics.

"_Stupid stupid stupid_," he mutters, banging around his tiny room and trying to find the clean pants he knows are hidden somewhere.

It shouldn't be hard, he only owns three pairs, and that alone makes him entirely unsuitable for her. It's not that he has some idealistic notion of class barriers – he's not resisting because she's a Baron's daughter and he barely owns more than his books. He knows he could marry her if he wanted to, and _god_ does he want to - but Mackenzie _herself_ could do so much better than an exhausted American who doesn't know where he's going beyond three steps down the road.

He wants her to have everything in life – every opportunity and pleasure and experience; and whilst he can certainly provide some that she might otherwise have been restricted from, he can't take her around the world exclusively, or take her dining and dancing in wonderful places across the globe.

She wants to explore the world but Will can hardly keep himself together long enough to leave his room each day (truly, it's the thought of meeting her that has him bounding towards his bicycle each afternoon), and no matter how he paints it – how often he tells himself that he could and would love her explicitly, he can't help but shake the thought that someone else could do it _better_.

He shouldn't have kissed her yesterday. It was a mistake born of too many feelings and too many sensations and her damn fingers walking up and down his chest and he resolves to tell her that this afternoon.

That's if he can get his clean pants on.

ooo

"Do that again," she demands wistfully and all Will can think is _fuck, fuck, fuck_ this is not how things were supposed to go.

Despite that, he cups the back of her head with his palm and uses it to tug her more firmly across his lap. She's wearing a soft cotton summer dress in pale blues that pools around her waist as he runs a hand up her thigh and he can feel the heat of her pressed into his lap – she's intoxicatingly persistent as she sucks at his lower lip and whilst he's certainly no virgin, he feels like a fumbling novice all over again with her.

Mackenzie, on the other hand, has taken to kissing like she was born to seduce him and Will can't even remember how they go here – one minute he was walking cautiously towards her by the stream and the next she'd tugged him down onto the grass.

She shifts her hips and he groans into her mouth and she makes a delighted noise, like she's uncovered the mysteries of the universe.

"This is much more fun than debating politics, don't you think?" she mutters, and he grunts but can't help but nod.

He loves arguing with her; loves debating the nuisances of capitalism and the faults of socialism (which she bravely defends); loves listening to her read to him and finding new books for her to discuss in turn. He loves watching her as the sun sets – for they always meet in the late afternoons – and listening to her laugh delightedly at him by the water and making her blush with his words and whispers.

He's never met a girl – a woman, he sternly reminds himself – that captivated both his heart and his mind, but Mackenzie seems intent on stealing both. His resolve to end this thing before it started died the moment she smiled at him as he stepped around the large trunk of an obscuring tree – because this isn't about the kisses or the books or the shared intellect or even the pleasure of being enjoyed by a young, beautiful woman.

There's something about her that he feels intrinsically connected to, like some part of his soul's been waiting for her to come along.

"God, I adore you," he murmurs, and presses quick kisses to her brow and her eyelids and then down her nose. She laughs softly against his lips and lets her hands tangle in his wayward hair and presses her body closer until she's cradled against his hips.

"And I you," she whispers.

He believes her.


End file.
